Veal Parmesan and a Boring Poem


This evening I made veal parmesan
and wrote a boring poem.

First I defrosted the veal in a bowl of cold water.
That was after some underpaid migrant farmer
tortured some small cow by stuffing it full of food
and not letting it wander. Like Monday Night Football.
Here on ABC. Some throat cutting and eventually
a veal cutlet. And a poem. Whoops. Shit or get off
the pot indeed applies to poetry, but as an unintended norm.
Let me get to that. I then contemplated the importance of
coprophage logotypes. I mean corporate. Sorry.
I ask you, 0 sweet audience, is 7-11's logo more penetrant,
a seven like a blade, than IBM's? I mean only to suggest
every once in a while we all take a shit. So what? Why
advertise? Oh right. The poem. Shit. I mean the food. Right.

Second I pounded the veal flat, after placing it between
two sheets of wax paper. Comfortable fucking, you know the kind.
Not too hard. Don't want bruising but you want some firm slapping of
pelvis against your preference. Thud thud thud. Here on CBS. We're out
of toilet paper. Pass the New York Times. Right again. Pounding away.
The point is not to tolerate my pounding. Celebrate it with me.

Third I dredged the veal in flour, then egg, then bread crumbs.
White death and the potential for cholesterol. My HDLs and LDLs are
reasonably well-fitted to the subject of a poem, since, after all,
a poem is a pile of shit, or so the Paris Review told me once.
It whispered gently in my ear, after some hot sex followed by a good
sweaty shit. I learned about defecating from my parents. Family values
gone straight down the shitter. Here on ABC. Roll that veal, roll, roll.
And keep that cholesterol of love rolling in the hay I pray.

Fourth I heated a pan of olive oil. Extra virgin.
You thought I was going to take advantage of that moment of purity
but I keep my hands off the verdant mama. I let the migrant worker
rape her for me. My bourgeois guilt and a recyclable popsicle stick.
Give me Al Gore and a colloidal oatmeal colonic. Give me George Bush
and a planet the shape and smell of a burning pile of dough. Georgie like
cookie. Georgie eat shit and smile. He no write poem. He leave it to
stinky poo Jimmy Carter pres. Jimmy he stinko no bombo. And
drop the dead cow into the hot oil pop pow like the fourth of July with
third degree burns. Shit a poem and remember it means more. The Great Shitstorm
did not smile upon you but instead left you FOX, the Washington Post, Cisco
and the Circle K. Your friends are askew in a pile like talus, a great mountain
eroded, gone. Dead. You are now alone. They were gods and died
before they invited you into the regularly scheduled programming. The dead
are dead but somehow call you into the black. The black is not
a pile of shit or a television show, not the veal parmesan
your petty life afforded you, but instead a request. You can't hold a job and
your head is cloudy but you must make something
yes something make something that is not a pile of shit, make it with anger hope fear love
and some words. Lay off the shit the dead channel says, shake that steady diet of shit,
hopelessly wander in search of a myth called yourself.
And then let go.